I Was Fortunate Enough To Have A

A Play Is Basically A Long, Formalistic Polemic. You Can Write It Without The Poetry, And If You Do, You May Have A Pretty Good Play. We Know This Because We See Plays In Translation. Not Many People Speak Norwegian Or Danish Or Whatever Guys Like Ibsen Spoke, Or Russian - Yet We Understand Chekhov And The Others.

There's No Such Thing As Talent; You Just Have To Work Hard Enough.

If You're Neurotic And You Think, I'm Not Where I Deserve To Be Or My Mother Didn't Love Me, Or Blah, Blah, Blah, That Lie, That Neurotic Vision, Takes Over Your Life And You're Plagued By It 'til It's Cleansed. In A Play, At The End Of The Play, The Lie Is Revealed. [t]he Better The Play Is, The More Surprising And Inevitable The Lie Is, As Aristotle Told Us. Plays Are About Lies.

Many Players Will Not Improve Because They Cannot Bear Self-knowledge.

When We Leave The Play Saying How Spectacular The Sets Or Costumes Were, Or How Interesting The Ideas, It Means We Had A Bad Time.